


Holodrek

by elscorcho



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, Gen, Holodecks/Holosuites, Humor, M/M, Spanking, barclay is the worst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 12:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9726572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elscorcho/pseuds/elscorcho
Summary: Manners, my son. Manners. You embarrass me before our guest. Master Barclay will spank you if you misbehave. - Beverly Crusher, “Hollow Pursuits.”





	

  


Healing, agile hands kneaded the tense flesh between Lieutenant Barclay’s neck and shoulders.  

  


“Feeling better?” A soft, lilting voice tickled against his earlobe.

  


“Getting there.” Reg groaned back, head rolling in a stiff, semi-circle. “Ah…you’re good at that.”

  


“No injures?” Palms fanned out, slithered through the opening of his robe and toyed with his chest.

  


“Not a scratch, darling.”

  


Barclay cracked open an eye, leveled a giant smirk at the ground. “Can’t say the same about our  _ friend _ , though.”

  


There, contorted, lay Commander Riker; knocked out cold, a trickle of blood and saliva painting the corner of his mouth.   

  


The feminine voice in Barclay’s ear made a delicate, disgusted sound. Her disinterest was clear.

  


“He provoked you. So...you’re really not injured?” She repeated, and the hands grew insistent. “I could…examine you, to be certain.”

  


“Is that within your job description, counselor?” Barclay teased, turning to face the dark-haired goddess behind him. She just smiled, secretive and coy. They leaned in to kiss, but a low grumble of pain rudely cut in.

  


“We should probably do something about _ him _ .” Troi suggested, callously.

  


Barclay looked to his left, where a cart brimming with a mountain of sugary food and drink sat beside his throne. He grabbed the nearest plate, heaping with icing-slathered pastry, and threw it squarely in Riker’s face, jolting him back to consciousness.

  


“Wh-a..uh!” Riker sputtered, sitting up, and his other side was revealed, mottled by a plum-colored, swollen black eye.

  


“Have a nice nap,  _ Commander _ ?” Barclay snarled, and the other man cringed, averted his eyes, struggled to stand. Head bowed, face covered in cake, he awaited instruction.

  


“Didn’t think you’d be so outmatched,  _ did you _ , Riker?”

  


“I’ll never challenge you to a Juro Counterpunch match again, Sir.” He said.

  


“That’s probably wise.” Reg turned up his nose, and sniffed. “You may go.”

  


Dismissed, Riker limped out the door.

  


“Now…where were we…?” Deanna came around to the front of his chair, sat in Barclay’s lap, arms across his shoulders. The silky fabric of her robe cut high, across her thighs, and Barclay placed his hands upon them, drumming, thoughtful.

  


He had, of course, enjoyed a romp with Deanna early in the simulation. After which, in the afterglow of lovemaking, she traced the furrow of his brow and said:

  


“Unburden yourself.” And if this had been a real session, if she hadn’t been naked with no place to store a recording device, she probably would have pulled it out.

  


“Tell me about your day.” And the ritual began. “You seem particularly troubled. Did something happen?”

  


“Well…there was this… _ party _ .”

  


_ A technician in Engineering had baked a cake, from scratch, to celebrate a birthday. Barclay hadn’t been quick enough and missed out on a slice. Standing there like an idiot, the only one without a piece, and no one seemed to notice or care. _

  


Holodeck-simulated cake wasn’t much, a recollection rather than a fresh sensation, but the sight and feel and impression of it pleased him, anyway, sort of like Deanna. None of it was real, but feeling like some version of him, in some dimension could have this cake, and this woman, was enough.

  


Gorged on sweets, Troi prodded again.

  


“There now…satisfied?” She simpered, and Barclay frowned, slightly. It wasn’t just the cake.

  


“No?” She looked quizzical. “Tell me what happened, after that.”  

  


_ He watched everyone chew on their cakes through smiles and laughter. His knees had felt weak and wobbly the way they always did in social situations, and he stood there wondering what to do, how to occupy himself, who to talk to, when a large hand clapped him on the back, causing him to pitch forward in an awkward, half-stumble. _

  


_ “Hey, sounds like a party in here- Oh! Sorry about that, Reg!” Commander Riker crowed, and yanked him up by the arm. _

  


_ “You just…s-startled me, that’s all…” Barclay stuttered, dusting himself off. _

  


_ “Saved you a slice, Commander!”  A voice called, from across the room, and Riker moved along with another, departing, (but less firm) clap to his back. _

  


_ Riker had his cake, Barclay’s cake, and was eating it, too. _

  


It had felt good to knock Riker out and smash that cake right back in his handsome face. But somehow, it hadn’t been enough. Troi urged him to continue, so the holodeck could adapt to the layers and layers of his vengeful mood. 

  


_ Put off by everything, and everyone, Barclay decided to leave and return when the celebration had thinned, work off-site in the meantime. Facing the door, nearly within activation-distance, another voice rang out. _

  


_ “Reg! C’mere!” It was Geordi, and Barclay blinked, and swallowed. Stiffly, awkwardly weaving through people and avoiding contact, he walked toward the chief of engineering. Beside the younger man was a female lieutenant, visiting from another ship. Pretty, oval face, caramel skin and eyes.  _

  


_ “Y-yes?” _

  


_ “There he is. Barclay, my man.” _

  


_ Was Geordi going to introduce them? _

  


_ “Hey…hi. Commander. How’s it…going?” _

  


_ “Great.” Geordi  said, quickly. “So listen, Reg…would you mind keeping an eye on the intermix chamber?  It’s been acting a little off-kilter lately and I’m reluctant to leave it alone for too long.” He asked, referring to the warpcore, decks away from where the party was. He had the audacity to look sheepish about it, suggesting that maybe it was his responsibility, but one look to his companion told Barclay all he needed to know; his boss had other plans. _

  


_ “Yes...I can do that, sir.” Barclay mumbled, and Geordi grinned. _

  


_ “What a pal.” He said, and walked off with the lady. _

  


Barclay gritted his teeth at the memory. Speaking of which…

  


“How’s it going over there,  _ pal _ ?”

  


He craned his neck to the corner of the simulated room, where Geordi sat in the center of a complex terminal that circled all around him, blinking and chirping away. His chair swiveled, round and around, jerking this way and that, as he furiously pressed buttons in no predictable sequence or order.

  


“Excellent sir! Just great!” He sounded manic. Sweat beaded over his visor.

  


“Need any help? You look a little overwhelmed there,  _ buddy _ .”

  


“All under control!” Geordi paused for a quick salute, and in that brief span of time, alarms began to sound. Panicked, he resumed his work, and the warnings ceased.

  


“You still seem tense.” Deanna commented. “What happened after the party? Think back.”

  


Reg thought about it. Though it had galled him to be cast back into the lower decks to stare at plasma levels for hours, at least he was free from rejection, cliques, and ego-driven authority figures.

  


_ When another technician took his place, he emerged, into the main room, pleased that the party had ended and engineering was back to normal, with a light scattering of technicians engrossed in their work. He was surprised to see Captain Picard there, standing in the center of the room, finishing up a slice of cake (where did he get one???) watching the master systems display. _

  


_ The Captain filled him with the standard amount of awe. But he respected him very much, and dare he suggest, identified with his character in many ways. A quiet, careful man, who thought his words and actions through, took little stock in the importance of being charismatic or outgoing. His reserved and private nature was somehow the crux of his power and influence, something Barclay admired and envied greatly. _

  


_ Relieved that he was the only person he’d have to encounter, before this afternoon was through, Reginald approached. _

  


_ “Did we both miss the party?” The Captain sounded relaxed, and cheerful. Barclay coughed, and laughed nervously. _

  


_ “Truth be told,” Picard said, conspiring, “I prefer smaller gatherings, myself.” _

  


_ “I’d have to a-agree, Captain.” Barclay admitted, feeling encouraged. “I was..working. Monitoring the i-intermix chamber.” _

  


_ “Yes I recall, from the briefing. Mr. LaForge said the plasma levels have been unpredictable?” _

  


_ Brightening, Reg came closer with a stride more confident, eager to display his knowledge and establish his worth to the Captain. _

  


_ “Well.” He said. “It was, but I logged the differentiations of the last 6 hours and the …fluctuations were negligible, s..so I think perhaps, the problem corrected itself.” _

  


_ “Fantastic.” Picard declared, finishing his cake and sweeping the dish into a receptacle. Brushing his hands together and adjusting his jacket, he smiled. “If only every problem could resolve itself, eh, Mr. Broccoli?” _

  


_ Horrified, a vein in Picard’s temple twitched. His jaw tightened, lips pursed. He cleared his throat, made some sort of excuse to leave that Barclay didn’t register, in his haze of humiliation, and left. _

  


“Mr. Broccoli.” Reg repeated, back to the present.

  


“Should we bring in the Captain?” Troi suggested, stroking his face. “Force-feed him broccoli?” 

  


“….No.” Barclay decided.  The Captain had been treating him kindly before his slip, and looked suitably mortified. He was a busy man, with a lot on his mind, and such things happened.

  


Instead, he considered the real source, the person who started the nickname and planted it in his head in the first place

  


Wesley. Fucking. Crusher.


End file.
